


Unbearably Fluffy (An Apology in Advance)

by Zaniida



Series: Five Moments of Intimacy [7]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: (that was my beta reader's reaction to one section), Bear is a Good Dog, Double Drabble, FMI, FMNI, Five Moments of Intimacy, Gen, Panic Attack, Quintuple Drabble, and enthusiastic, and everyone likes him, and he is helpful, and nurturing, but no one likes durians, elbows-friendly, pfft who needs a heart?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-23 06:10:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16153229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida
Summary: I'd meant to get this finished and published before October, but that plan failed by a few crucial hours.  (I'm gonna try to cheat and see if I can still list it as September, for Reasons.)I just couldn't let my first major depiction of Bear be a depressing one.





	1. Fusco and Bear at the beach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MulaSaWala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MulaSaWala/gifts).



> Apparently I find it hard to write fluff without some angst. Sorry, Fusco.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fusco confides in Bear his fears about the future with regard to his son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The least happy chapter. Poor Fusco :(

Surprisingly, Bear doesn’t want to go in the water today, so Fusco just sits next to him on the shore while Lee cavorts with the other kids who’ve come out for some summer fun.

A ways down the beach, Carter’s ex is sitting on a towel. Taylor’s in the water near Lee; neither seems to recognize the other. They’ve met, sure, at various functions, but it’s not like they were gonna strike up a friendship, not with that age gap; peer groups and all.

When Bear rolls onto his back, angling for a scratch, Fusco obliges. He watches Taylor for a while. Watches Taylor keep his distance from the other kids. Not much. Just enough to be noticeable, at least from back here. And Fusco isn’t sure how, what’s the word, how _introverted_ he was to begin with; maybe that’s his normal. (He’d wonder if it’s a race thing, but the kids here are all different shades, and it doesn’t seem to make any difference to Taylor.)

“His mom’s a hero,” Fusco mutters, with only Bear to hear him. “He’s gonna grow up hearing that, all the time. Maybe he’ll even get sick of it.” It’s something important, maintaining her good image, though it’ll be a while before it really helps to take the sting away. If it ever does.

“Lee thinks _I’m_ a hero,” Fusco continues, watching his son. Flopping over, Bear rests his head on Fusco’s leg; Fusco buries both hands in his fur, scratching down deep. “I didn’t ask for that,” he says. “His mom started it, back before we broke up. Cops as heroes.” He sighs. “I’ve known too many cops, y’know?”

There’s a lot of good cops. They don’t make up for the bad ones. There’s a lot of cops who are neither -- the kind who show up and do their job and go home again. Fusco’s been all three… or, well, he started out with idealism, bounced back and forth between bad and normal for a while, sunk way down in the mire before Reese pulled him up by the scruff of his neck. Hell, he doesn’t even know what he is anymore. He’s trying to be a good cop again. Probably not good _enough_ , but he’s trying.

Carter died protecting the city, doing what they’d both signed up to do. If there was ever a good way to die -- not a _pleasant_ way to die, but a _good_ way to die -- it was dying to preserve the ideals you lived by. She’d never lost sight of her moral standard, and Taylor has every reason to be proud of his mom.

Bear whuffs; Fusco scratches his ears. “Guess when I die, Lee’s maybe gonna think I died a hero. Until some of the details come out. Stuff I did. Maybe the _way_ I die.” He sighs. “I’ve always been good at this, y’know? I’m a good cop, a _skilled_ cop. But…” He swallows. “Maybe it’s too late for him to stay proud of me.”


	2. Shaw and Bear incapacitated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both are wearing medical devices that restrict movement, and both have an itch.

“Ugh,” Shaw groans, sinking back against the couch, trying to balance her arm in a way that feels halfway natural and doesn’t make her even more aware of the thick layer of plaster between her and the rest of the world. “This sucks.”

Bear jumps up beside her and, after a couple of tries, manages to lay his head across her leg and look up at her with doleful eyes. Chuckling morosely, she scratches behind the giant plastic collar. “Aren’t we a pair?”

With one paw, he tries to get at his ear. She squeezes him a little, across the shoulders.

“Not gonna work, buddy. That’s why they’ve got you in that thing.”

Bear whines pitifully.

“I know,” Shaw says, “believe me,” and leans her head back, trying to ignore the fact that her wrist has begun itching like she’s got a case of the hives. Briefly, she considers trying to find a coat hanger -- Finch has to have some around here, right? -- but nah… she can wait it out. Not the worst thing she’s ever felt.

Less pleasant than the initial break, though. At least _that_ was over fast, and quickly numb.

Right now, she’d be happier with numbness.


	3. John and Bear at a doga class

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds it difficult to focus on yoga moves while his brain is always hyper-aware of potential threats.

It had seemed like nothing more than a joke, that offhand comment about a yoga class, and yet here he is -- a year and a half later -- stretching out his spine while teaching Bear to respond to the names of dog-friendly yoga moves. _Doga_ , which is apparently the name for doggy yoga, because of course it is.

John is diligently studying each move, storing them in mnemonic spots along a mental walk through the library (not through his loft; it’s far easier to hang details on the way he feels as he heads up the stairs to where he belongs). Taking note of all the details he can manage, so he’ll eventually be able to do all this at home, in far more secure surroundings. Because the classes might be designed to reduce stress, but the venue itself has the opposite effect on John; true, it’s not as bad as the classes held in full view of the street, but he’s still surrounded by a couple dozen strangers while he’s necessarily off his guard.

His SIG’s at home. He wouldn’t trust it in one of the cubbies, even buried in a pile of clothes, and he can’t wear it because there’s no telling which part of his anatomy he’ll have to lean on next. What he’s brought, instead, is a ceramic knife in the heel of his boot; his boots are in the cubby, of course, but the knife is far more hidden than any gun could be.

And if it turns out that he needs a gun? Well, he’s used to improvising weapons. There’s little in the room that could securely take down a gunman, though a few possibilities if he could close to short range. From the back corner, he’s got eyes on the entrance and the entire room; with his kind of training, it’s impossible to relax while there’s a possible threat behind you.

Normally, he could rely on Finch to keep an eye on their surroundings, alert him if anything seemed off, but Finch is in a session with his osteopath… which is pretty much the only reason that John allowed himself to attend the class to begin with. Firstly, because Finch is in a (relatively) safe place, and John doesn’t have to worry about him for an hour or so.

Secondly, because John worries about him _anyway_ , and needs something active to take his mind off the thought of Finch letting himself be that vulnerable. His phone will go off if Finch leaves the building before John expects him to, but it’s a secure facility and he’s already vetted the major staff. That’s still not enough. It’s hard to stay out of it, the way Finch wants.

So he tries to force himself to relax, and focus on the moves, and follow their instructor’s directions.

Bear is evidently feeling more relaxed than John is (not a high bar to meet), and he’s picking up the new commands like new commands are the best thing _ever_.


	4. Harold and Bear in the park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bear helps Harold overcome a panic attack by directing his attention at someone in need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, panic attack. Not extreme or too detailed, and no obvious cause. If you have trouble reading about panic attacks, maybe hop down halfway ("Bear suddenly whines") and go from there.

It’s not until Bear nudges him off the path, until his legs hit something hard and he’s off-balance enough that he can’t stay on his feet and just plops down onto a bench, that Harold realizes that he’s hyperventilating. As Bear’s weight presses comfortingly against his shins, he recalls his therapist’s advice and takes off his hat, shoves it over half his face, and breathes into it while trying to ignore the spectacle that he’s making.

Thankfully, there aren’t many people here today; it’s rather overcast. Over his brim, he can see the rest of the park -- the blooms that cover the ground and trees, the river winding under the nearby footbridge -- but the beauty just suffuses him with a wave of bitterness. It’s ridiculous. It’s _always_ ridiculous. It’s been nearly a year since Root threatened Grace, nearly two since she kidnapped him the first time, and yet he still hits these panic attacks and he has no idea what, particularly, sets them off.

With all the joyous birdsong around him, he ought to be feeling calm and safe; birdsong is his happy place, the memory of his father. He doesn’t want to lose that. So many layers of sound, the unique instrument of each breed, each individual -- he can pick out the notes as clearly as a composer knows a flute from a clarinet. But, right now, he’s feeling like a concrete block is sitting on his chest. That’s not a heart attack, is it? Surely Bear would be acting differently if it were a heart attack.

Little by little, he works through his therapist’s suggestions, the little mental tricks that overlap, to a generous degree, the pain-management techniques that he picked up after his surgeries. Ways to distract the mind and convince the body that it’s making a mountain out of a molehill (even if that means making a molehill out of a mountain because you can’t deal with the mountain right now). Ways to calm down his system, bring it back under control.

Bear suddenly whines and shoves against his knees, jerking his head to the side like there’s something he wants Harold to see. But there’s nothing: no other dogs, no people, nothing he can see from the bench, anyway. Has someone fallen into the river? The prickly sensation of fear runs across Harold’s shoulders, and he’s not back to normal yet and might not be for some time… but he puts on his hat and struggles to his feet and follows Bear across the path and down toward the water.

Just under the bridge, Bear stops suddenly and ducks down his entire front end, like he’s found something.

It takes Harold a moment to study the patch of leaves before he realizes that it’s moving. Half-hidden in the soggy foliage: a tiny nestling.

Deciding not to mind the state his knees are about to be in, he gingerly manages to kneel on the wet dirt so he can pick the little guy up. “Well… a phoebe, maybe? Aren’t you a tiny thing.” Barely any feathers yet: definitely too young to be out of the nest.

With difficulty, Harold gets to his feet again, one hand protecting the nestling while the other uses his knee for stability. He has to catch his breath once he’s up -- partly from exertion, partly from the pain. “All right,” he says, finally, “now where did you come from?”

A short search finds a tiny nest in the brickwork under the bridge, not even three feet off the ground. There are two other chicks there, same stage of growth -- obviously the right nest.

For a couple of minutes, Harold just holds the one he found, warming its tiny body with his hands until he’s pretty sure that the parents won’t kick it out to protect the others. Then, gently, he tips it back into the comfort of its nestmates.

It’s only once he gets back to the path, a little too aware of how much rainwater soaked into his knees, that he realizes he’s taking good, full breaths of spring air -- his lungs no longer constricted, his brain no longer panicked.

He leans over slightly to rub Bear’s head. “Good boy.”


	5. Root and Bear returning from a mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shared emotion of disgust over smells that follow them around.

“No, Miss Groves, I heard you quite clearly. I assume there’s a _reason_ you’re requesting our, ah, dirty laundry?”

Bear tucks in tight against Root, swiping a paw over his nose as they wait for the crosswalk. “Well, Harry,” she says with a sigh, “when we get back, you get to give Bear a bath, while I take a good shower and maybe burn my clothes. I’m gonna indulge in some scented candles to refresh my nose, but for a canine? Meat, and the scent of its master. Hence, dirty laundry.”

Finch pauses. “I… guess I’ll order a steak. What in the world have you two been up to?”

“Oh, summer heat in Brooklyn… a maintenance tunnel behind a luncheonette that we had to squeeze through because it was _definitely_ grandfathered in” -- she scrunches her nose at the stench of rancid grease that still hangs about them like a miasma -- “oh, and Bear just had his first encounter with a durian. We’re both still reeling from _that_ one.”

“Small wonder. Will you be needing anything else?”

“Well… care to order me up some coconut curry? Make it Shaw levels of spicy.”

“I’ll send Mr. Reese to fetch some at once.”


End file.
